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Chapter Text

The house loomed over Sirius like an open wound, gutted open at the side (the side of the nursery) gaping like flesh freshly torn open.

He stopped at the edge of the wards, tilting his head back to stare at the sky with wide eyes. There, casting the cottage into eerie shadows with it's green glow, was the dark mark. Even from outside of the wards it was leeching a terrible feeling into the air, making his skin feel sticky with the potency of it. He couldn't see into the crumbled parts of the cottage, the shadows curling around the edges of the bricks and the lights blown out.

His gut clenched, something terrible had happened here. The air stank of dark magic and blood, so much so that he wouldn't be surprised if even a muggle could feel the wrongness moving against their skin like an eel.

With a shuddering breath Sirius stepped through the wards, realizing with a start that they had not been brought down. In fact, the Fidelius seemed as strong as the day it had been cast. He staggered, eyes wide as disbelief slowly gave way to a rising fury.

Peter. Peter had been caught then, they had gotten him and done such horrible things to him that he had given up the location of their most trusted secret.

If it had been him, oh if only it had been him. Sirius knew then, a certitude so rooted in his heart that it could not waver, that he would have died a thousand times over before breathing a word of Godric's Hollow. He would have ripped out his very heart and laid it, still pulsing, at Lily's feet before he had even thought of betraying them. They were his only family, the only thing that he had left in the world and so had been Peter, they had been blood bound for years!

He shook his head, there was no time to stand there and feel sorry for himself when there was barely enough time to rush into the house.

He took an unsteady step towards the front door, it was closed but it had been rammed open with enough force to make one of the hinges come off, the door hanging off the remaining one and a slanted sliver of light showing through. He pushed it open and it groaned, too loud in the oppressive silence of the night surrounding him.

The carpet that he had picked out was stained with soot and blood, muddying the maroon shade of it so much that it seemed brown. He could smell it even here, the sweet stench of death, and his heart broke a little right then and there.

And then he saw it, a shape crumpled at the bottom of the staircase, hair spread out on the carpet like a black halo. He didn't rush towards it, he knew even before he had looked that James had gone down. The carpet was spelled soundproof, making way to an almost reverent silence as he made his way to the corpse of his best friend.

His wand was still clenched in frozen hands, of course he had gone down fighting as hard as he could. There was a cut on his brow, hair matted where it had run down his forehead and into open eyes, staring blankly at Sirius. He felt frozen, like time had stopped going forwards too, like the universe itself was shaken by this event. Slowly, he ran his hands down the caramel skin of James's face, pressing his eyelids closed as gently as he could bear to.

He slid his hands under the body, rising to his feet with a smooth motion and a whispered spell. The sofa had survived the fierce fight that had ravaged most of the living room, coming out of it with only a torn cushion, and that's where he laid James out. He looked smaller there, laid out on the cushions like he was sleeping after a rough shift and would jolt awake at any moment. He wouldn't, Sirius knew that, but it was easier to turn away and go up the stairs knowing that.

In contrast to the living room the upstairs hallway was untouched, the only sign being a wall sconce shattered by whatever had gone down in the nursery. He placed his hand of the handle and recoiled instantly, the metal was scorching hot and burned his palm as if it was red hot. Dread wormed it's way into Sirius's heart and he pushed it open with his shoulder, rushing into the room with a panicked gasp.

And there, as if ripped straight out of his own nightmares, laid Lily's corpse.

Later he will only remember fragments of the following hour, wisps of memory as fragile as glass. He will think of Lily and see her hair, as red as blood pooling around his feet as he bends to kiss her cold cheek, will remember how his tears has rolled down her cheeks as is she was mourning herself.

"Oh Lily, what have you done..." he had whispered, but the reason for those words was lost to him in the abyss of his fractured memories, smashed into a thousand pieces by grief and pain. There had been some runes on the floor perhaps, or merely blood speckled in an eerie shape.

He doesn't remember digging Holly out of the crib either, only the way that she had screamed and shrieked as if to announce that she had survived it all, despite all odds. Her small face had been almost cleaved in two, the white fat of her cheek revealed by an almost obscene parting of the flesh, the wound running down the entire right side of her face. He remembers chanting healing spells for what felt like hours, the flesh too slow to knit itself back together as the exhausted toddler had almost no energy to accelerate the process. And even afterwards the wound had mocked his inability, standing red and weeping on her porcelain skin.

But most of all he remembers feeling numb and then raw all at once, as if a part of him had been torn away and he was wracked with phantom pains, the limb aching long after it was gone. The tears ran down his face unbidden but he couldn't fully comprehend what he had lost. Only that Holly still breathed, and that he would do anything to keep it that way.

So he laid her gently on his lap, her emerald eyes closed and her little fists clenched as she succumbed to an uneasy sleep. The evening had exhausted him just as much as it had exhausted the child, but there is still something that he has to do.

He cuts his finger on a bit of rubble, smearing it gently on the child's breastbone and then he starts singing. His voice is rough and broken from crying, and screaming maybe, but it doesn't matter. This is an old spell, older than the library it had been stored in, maybe even older than the first person that had recorded it, it would work as long as he had blood in his veins and the will to pledge his life for a cause.

So he sings, and the blood on her chest soaks through the flesh until all that remains is a small red mark, as small as a freckle and just as unnoticeable. The air shimmers for a moment, a crackle of electricity rings in his ears for a moment and that's all the warning he gets before the spell closes around his throat. He struggles not to drop Holly as his air supply is cut off, something intangible bruising his flesh and making him gasp and wheeze.

He puts her down as gently as he can before his body starts to seize as he knows it will, the spell tearing through his nervous system like a wildfire. He bucks, almost panicked through the fuzziness of his mind, as his body automatically starts to struggle against death, blackness creeping into the edges of his vision.

Then, something cold closes around his throat and he can breathe again. He gulps greedily, his throat burning fiercely but his mind blessedly clear again as he drops his head to the floor, allowing him one small moment of respite before he has to get moving again. Holly isn't safe here and neither is he, Peter could be anywhere in Britain and beyond and Voldemort was nowhere to be seen. If his years as an auror had taught him anything it was that an unseen enemy was the most dangerous kind.

There is no need to run as it turns out, Hagrid is there when he stumbles out of the door, the gentle hum of his motorcycle's engine in the background. And when the giant asks to take Holly away from the carnage and into Hogwarts for the night he hands her over easily enough. There's a nurse there, and wards strong enough to repel an army should they come for her.

Besides, he thinks as he presses a kiss to her forehead, carefully avoiding the wound, he still has a rat to hunt down.

Peter, as it turns out, is pathetically easy to find. A strand of hair plucked off of a shattered bathroom counter and a tracking spell later and he is apparating into a dark alley somewhere in London. The bastard wasn't even smart enough to flee the country, or perhaps he was hoping that he could lose himself in the extensive sewer system for a while.

Fat chance, a nasty smile was curling on his lips at the thought of what he would do to the one responsible for this mess.

He doesn't lose a moment, a nonverbal protego shimmering into existence around him as he hits the rat with a spell that has him squeaking in alarm, then crying out in pain as his body forcibly unfolds into human shape. His curse casts first, a nasty red light sailing out with the curse, but Peter is quicker to throw himself to the floor and fire back.

He's too slow to make quick work of this, exhaustion dragging his body down and making him sloppy, slower. But that's fine, a quick execution would be far better than what he deserves for his sins.

He can see Peter's hand twitch on the edges of his vision, half white with spellfire as it is. The fingers move frantically as his own tighten on his wand, his shield now nothing more than a spiderweb of blue around his body, looking breakable as glass. He fires another cutting curse, watching as the red light sails over Peter's shoulder, deflected by the traitor's wand. More noticeably, the fingers not holding a wand slow down, rolling a black item between sooty fingers. Almost distracted he ducks down under an entrail expelling curse, the kind of curse he hadn't even known Peter could cast. His shield cracks a little more, brittle despite the respite afforded by his acrobatics. The item in Peter's hand doesn't glint like stone of metal, instead it has the dull shine of something porous, cut though with a small patch of white.

It looks like bone he realizes.

A beat passes, he forgets to cast and pays the price in a pulse of shattered blue, leaving him slightly smoking and defenseless.

It doesn't matter.

Yes, he thinks, he knows what this is. Peter was always very good at runes.

The rat brandishes his wand again, but this time at himself, his lip is curled and there is a hint of red on his teeth, the sign of a magically exhausted wixen. But it looks like a smile, vicious and triumphant as Peter whispers a cutting curse and watches as his finger falls in a spray of red, painting his cheek.

Sirius is moving before he can even think about it, jumping over a cinder block and stretching desperate hands towards the other man. He knows what will happen if he doesn't, Holly, oh gods Holly is alone and waiting for him in those halls. He needs to get back to her more than he needs to breathe, needs to press her small body against his chest and listen as her heartbeat soothes his raw mind.

He cannot think about this, his feet seem so clumsy and slow as he desperately runs forwards, taking a blasting curse to the shoulder without even a sound. All he can see is Peter, his blue eyes wide and watery, his nose already twisting with magic as hair starts to fuzz his arms.

So he reaches deep inside of him and *pulls*, he is not fast enough but he can be, he can make himself better. His tendons tear as they reform, almost making him stumble, his whole body flooded with adrenalin as he rushes forwards in a burst of speed.

Peter is shrinking, so fast that it is almost untraceable to the naked eye. But Sirius can see him.

His fingers close around fur half a second before the change is complete. Somehow it is enough, and the world warps around them as he apparates without a thought.

They both tumble onto the grass of an unfamiliar forest, Peter half transformed and quickly changing back with an agonised shriek, his pants red with blood where skin was splinched. Sirius lost something too, his ear feels sticky and slick, and his shirt is soaked through at the shoulder where he took the earlier curse.

But he is quicker, and his hands close around Peter once again, one fisting viciously in thin hair as the other sharpens a nail with a whisper and starts carving. The rat wails in pain as his neck is gouged, the runes sloppy where his hands have slipped, leaving red and bloody streaks along the pale column on neck. They will work regardless, the aborted transformation fades into ordinary human features, even Peter's ears, always larger than normal, seem too small in their blonde nest of hair.

A horrible grin splits his face, he has him right where he wants him, and no one can run with a splinched calf after all.

"Sirius, please..." babbles the other man. His lips are tinged blue now, more red flecks dusting them as a tongue, strangely bloated, comes to lick them in a desperate attempt at moisture. He looks more exhausted than even before, his eyes red and weepy as he stares at Sirius with desperation.

Magical exhaustion he realizes, and his eyes flick down to Peter's left hand. The rune is still there, glowing faintly as the first threads of skin start to attach themselves to the carved knuckle bone. Only then does he realise the mistake he just made.

He has seconds, perhaps less than that, before the rune activates. And when it does he will be nothing more than a red mist of flesh and cartilage on the forest floor, vaporized so finely that every vein of the dead leaves will still be discernable. He doesn't have time to think, but he does have time to move and so he does.

His fingers curl around Peter's, a mockery of the affection they once shared, and he digs his fingers into the growth. It slides out with difficulty, newly created tendons ripping like red ribbon, but it comes loose none the less.

Peter's face twists with desperation, his fingers twitching towards it despite how his hand looks, bones dislocated by the rapid growth of flesh, purpled with dead cells and uncirculated blood. His mouth gapes open as he attempts to form words around his blackening tongue, but it lolls around uselessly, black and wet as a fish.

It's too late anyways, the rune stone burns through his fingers as he tosses it into the air, his shield flickering into existence a second later. Peter doesn't, or perhaps cannot summon one, and his eyes reflect the red hot gleam of the item like a lake reflects the sun. He looks like a child like that, wide eyed and scared as his toy comes crashing down and a shockwave rips through them both.

Peter dies without even a scream, little chunks of him littering the ground and blending in with the bloodstained ground. The strength of the spell doesn't fade, little cracks spreading through Sirius's shield as it chips away at it.

Holly will be alone, he will have failed all three of them after all. He can't even summon the energy to be scared as his shield fails, crumbling around him as heat singes his face and the world goes black.

Sirius black falls to the ground half a second before the aurors come.

Chapter Text

Waking up felt like wading through a very deep river, every inch of consciousness gained was a struggle against the current. Sirius wrenched his eyes open nonetheless, cringing as the blinked away crusty residue and sticky fluid.

Everything hurt, a dull throbbing pain in his extremities that intensified into a searing agony around his chest and right hand. He remembers a bright, unbearable heat and Peter's wide, terrified eyes.

But Peter breathed no more, he saw to that.

The thought should fill him with joy, but all it summons is a deep, somewhat relieved exhaustion. He's taken his revenge, for himself and for Holly, and the blood feud has been quenched.

Sorry Lily, James... he thinks mournfully, there is no revenge for the dead after all, only for those that survive them. His goddaughter will learn that too with time, that surviving a war is both a blessing and a curse.

He can hear nurses talking, but their voices are muffled as if underwater and he can't make out any individual words. It barely matters, sleep pulls him under like a dark wave and he is soon unconscious again.

He dreams of James and Lily, of Lily's hair like a bloody banner in the wind as she announced that she would fight, too. Of James's eyes when Holly was born, like a new star had been hung in the sky just for him.

Of James's eyes, forever frozen in defiance, gone grey and muddy with death. The shade of his dark hair against cobalt fabric, like ink spreading out in the night sky.

He dreams of many other things that slip from his memory like minnows, he can only recall the feeling of dread that it leaves him with. A sob tears itself out of his throat as he wakes, a sound raw with grief and pain and the ache in his airways.

His brain feels alien, whatever remnants of occulumency he still possessed wrapped themselves like tattered bandages around a wound, obscuring something that he could no longer reach. Something he was supposed to know, but now felt like a long lost dream.

His body jolts with awareness again, sharper than the last time, and the skin on his chest pulls so painfully with the movement that he goes limp.

"Be careful! You don't want to pull out your stitches Lord Black." says an unfamiliar voice.

He twists his head to stare at the intruder, struggling not to whimper with the pain that provokes, too. It's a safe bet to say that there will be no painless movement for him in a while. The nurse is young, doe eyed and clad in the eye watering colors of St Mungo's. Her hazel eyes peer at him from under a brow furrowed in concern, as she bends over him and smoothes a hand over his forehead. He gasps at that, her small hand feels like ice on his skin, almost burning with how overwhelmingly cold it feels.

He has a wicked fever no doubt, he doesn't need her to announce it to him. But she does and he lays there as he listens to her ramble on about the bone shards they had to dig out of his chest, Peter's bone shards, and how lucky he was that they were able to regrow the nerves in his hand. It doesn't really matter to him, only that Holly is far away from him and he can feel the infant's absence like a spike being driven through his chest. Perhaps it was the spell, the leash he had hung himself from in his desperation not to lose the only thing he had left, perhaps it was the tether of magic that made his insides twist with misery the way they did. Perhaps it was something else, the act had been carried out with a certainty so strong that it had driven him to use dark magic, blood magic of all things. A spell like this could only hurt him but it was still taboo and a part of his soul felt splintered at the mere thought of what else it could do.

The spell was a family secret, one of the many dusty books held within the entrails of Black Castle, held together by scarcely more than preservation spells and the weight of history. And he had still remembered it perfectly, how odd.

His own survival mattered little, he had half expected to fade into blissful nothingness and never emerge from it. Perhaps it would have been better to die too, to cross the veil of death and let his spirit join his family's in whatever ways he could. But he was alive nonetheless, and he was the only thing Holly had left too, two orphans of war, albeit in differently tragic ways.

The nurse hovers for a while, trying to coax him into swallowing bland broth and letting her hand linger against his exposed arms for just a little too long. His skin crawls at the sensation, he feels something writhe under the flesh like it has been tainted by the mere touch of a stranger, an intangible sort of rot that takes root all the way to the bone.

He pulls his arm away too roughly, finding a secret sort of pleasure in the way her round eyes start to water at his obvious avoidance. She leaves after that, her steps an angry little staccato on the stone tiles and the slam of a door too loud in the silence of a hospital ward. Gods, if Reggie were still around he would have her fired for that alone.

Once he was alone he hobbled to the bathroom, gazing at himself in the sterile lights. It smelled of bleach and the acidic residue of sickness, a special kind of human misery that only hospitals could conjure with such razor sharp clarity.

His hair had been singed off for the most part, brushing his shoulders where it once tumbled down to his waist, the ends frayed and uneven where the heat had licked at it. His eyes looked different too, hollow in their sockets, no longer silver like a moonlit river, but like the glint of a knife. He was worn down by the horror of it all, his own sins and those of others seemed to have a physical weight on his shoulders, his very own atlas globe to carry in the name of the dead.

Delicately, he pulled down the collar of the white robes he had been clothed in, revealing his bruised neck. There, in the middle of a watercolor of brutalized flesh was a slender red ring, the exact shade of freshly spilled blood. His fingers brushed the edge of it, it was smooth like silk and just as cool, seeming tattooed under his skin rather than a physical item.

Hysterical laughter bubbled out of his throat, the harsh bark of someone on the brink of losing his mind. "A collar for a dog!" He wheezed, the irony wasn't lost on him.

Suddenly it felt tight around his neck, choking rather than a comforting weight. The air seemed thicker and harder to breathe, but his brain could only focus on green green eyes. Not Lily's eyes, they would never be Lily's again, but they called to him like a beacon in the dark and he had to reach their owner now.

Sirius turned away from the stranger in the mirror and hurried towards the hallway, not even pausing to gather whatever personal items might have survived the events. He didn't want any of it, it was just as tainted as his memories now, soaked in the blood of his loved ones. Yes, it seemed fitting to throw it all away, after all he could no longer be Padfoot. For Holly he would have to be Lord Black, and carve out something good out of his thrice damned bloodline.

He pushed the door open and almost tumbled into Shacklebolt, the older Auror looked startled to see him, his hand still reaching for the handle.

"Sirius Black." He grumbled, adopting the posture of someone who was about to deliver grave news and felt awkward about being the chosen messenger. He could more than guess what this was about.

"Are you here about my employment?" He tilted his head mockingly, Auror Shacklebolt was taller than him. "There's no need to fire me, I quit."

The other man looked even more startled at that, looking at him with a mix of pity and suspicion. "That's not all Black, there's a hearing in a week for..."

He didn't need to finish, they both knew what he was talking about. Peter, everything was about the damn rat even when he was nothing more than burnt flesh and pulverized bones. It made Sirius sick.

He stood up straighter, stepping forwards even as Shacklebolt refused to give an inch. He could feel the other man's breath on his nose, count the pores on his weathered cheeks.

"I didn't kill Peter, he did it to himself." He spat, if anything it was the truth. "We fought, but it was the runes he was messing around with that got him. He activated the bloody thing knowing that "

A bit more of a lie, Peter would have been alive had the carved knucklebone been allowed to merge with his flesh. But the others didn't need to know that, and then it would have been Sirius spread out like lichen on the trees.

But Shacklebolt and him had never gotten along, not even before the war broke out and he was a snot nosed seventeen year old, pledging himself to things he could barely understand the importance of. So when the other man's eyes just narrowed, suspicion clear as day in those dark eyes he just sighed.

"Listen Shacklebolt, it doesn't matter wether you believe me or not." He tried to relax his shoulders, it wasn't that important. "Perhaps you don't think that's what happened, and it would be useless to sit here and argue. The court will come to it's own conclusions."

Shacklebolt clearly didn't like being dismissed that way but it scarcely mattered, he pushed past him, having to dodge a bulky shoulder, and kept walking towards the apparition point. The floo might be safer, exhausted and magically depleted as he was, but it was too slow for his purposes. Getting approved to walk out into the heart of Hogwarts could take half a day or more, depending on how occupied the staff was.

No, he would apparate to the edge of the wards and walk in, he would suffer no consequences for it if his intentions were harmless.

But when he gets to the right room, there are two more aurors standing in the middle of the atrium, bathed in technicolor light from the ceiling windows like two gargoyles. Of course it couldn't be that easy, to get what he has fought for and retreat to a quiet life of changing diapers.

He steps into the room smoothly, attracting their attention with a confident "Hello gentlemen, I suppose you're looking for me."

They don't seem surprised to see him almost running from his hospital room, barefooted and clad in nothing else than a thin hospital robe. One of them looks familiar but before he can recall where, his head throbbing in pain at any deep thought, a piece of parchment is thrust towards him. The vellum is crisp and white, a stark contrast to the shimmering red ink proclaiming a house arrest notice. The ministry always did have a flair for the dramatics, it would have been funny if he didn't feel so much like screaming at the sight of it.

"You can't be serious!" he chokes out instead, finding a hint of hysterical laughter in his throat anyways.

He swallows it down but something must have shown in the glint of his eyes or the burnt taste of the air because the one on the left takes an involuntary step back. Stupid of him, really, were this a fight he would have already been cut down.

The guy on the right is braver, and taller toi, maybe not having to look Sirius in the eyes if what gives him the nerve to shove the parchment against his chest when he doesn't immediately reach for it. Another appalling lack of manners really, and that was coming from a man with a fairy tattoo.

It occurs to Sirius that he might be in shock, or slightly hysterical, or both.

"I'm sorry Lord Black, we're simply here to relay the message" says Tall One gravely. He doesn't look sorry at all of course, what a wanker.

He knows what this means, of course he does. The ministry has judged him guilty regardless of what evidence might determine, and he was in deep trouble. House arrest was a kind sentence in such a situation, many a lesser man would have been carted off to Azkaban without even a warning. One of the many benefits of being the Heir to the House of Black he supposed, no matter how far he had fallen from grace.

But why would the ministry want him in Azkaban? He had been fighting for the order, almost all of the aurors knew if his allegiance. Even the messenger pigeons that they had sent if their shifty demeanor was an indicator.

Sirius took a deep breath, rolled up the parchment properly and tucked it neatly into his pocket. Above him a chandelier shattered, the glass tumbling to the floor like rain and pulling a scream out of a nearby witch.

"Thank you, I better get going now." By some miracle his voice doesn't shake, wether with anger or fear he cannot tell.

He all but throws himself towards the floo, he feels like a trapped animal in a room full of threats, his skin prickling with each perceived look. He cannot get to Holly, not now at least, and no matter how much his brain screams at him to screw the house arrest, throw the paper in the nearest fireplace and apparate to Hogwarts anyways he knows he cannot.

It feels like pulling on a leash, his throat feels too tight as he takes begrudging but quick steps towards green flames. Behind him he hears the tinkling of glass as the aurors brush shards of glass off their shoulders, but somehow not one piece made it's way to him.

Holly is safe. He repeats the sentence like a mantra in his head, clinging desperately to the sliver of strength it gives him as he steps into the fire.

It's late when Sirius finally stumbles out of the floo and into his Camden apartment, a quiet one bedroom flat in a little magical pocket of accomodations and a couple shops. He feels leaden, tired and achy and wanting nothing more than to crumble on his worn out couch and drown the memories of days all past and gone.

But the uncomfortable feeling is settling in his chest again, even as he all but collapses on the hallway bench to take his conjured boots off. It simmers inside of him while he walks to the kitchen and fixes himself a cup of tea, the boiling of the kettle (an awfully muggle thing that Lily insisted he own) sounding exactly like the pressure rising inside of his brain.

He opens the milk carton with shaky hands and spills half of it on the countertop, and another third on the rim of the mug, making it clammy and sticky to hold. Sinking down to the floor and sobbing is looking more and more attractive by the minute but Sirius knows that if he gives in to that urge he might not get up again. Withering away on his kitchen floor seems too dramatic even for him, or perhaps it's the slightly manic edge that his anger always has that spurs him forwards.

He all but stomps his way out of the kitchen and towards the living room, sloshing milky tea all over the hardwood floors and almost slipping in the resulting puddle. Unsurprisingly that only feeds the rage now boiling inside of him.

Perhaps that's why he only notices what feels so wrong as he is standing in the doorway of his living room, staring at the shadow comfortably seated on his couch. His wards were gone, there had been no warmth as he crossed the threshold, no slight resistance as he pushed past the doorway and sat on the bench. Whatever the intruder had done he had done it skillfully, unraveling the wards like fine spun wool rather than breaking through them.

His hand slowly reaches for his wand, he tries to wandlessly cast a silencing spell and bites back a swear as the fabric of his robes rustles anyways.

"Don't be ridiculous Sirius, come and sit down." rumbles a familiar voice. His grip loosens with shock and he almost drops his wand, he knows that man.

Sirius doesn't awnser, but he does take shaking steps into the living room, inching around furniture and stumbling over house plants as the spluttering fire finally gains enough strength to illuminate the face of one Arcturus Black the Third.

"I thought you were dead." Is the first thing that forces itself out of his throat, careless with shock. "What are you doing here?"

His grandfather looks better than the last time he saw him, the deep puckered scars of dragonpox now looking like so many pale stars scattered on his pale cheeks. His black hair pools around him on the red settee, sleek like silk and covered with a net of little braids and pearls. He looks like a man revived, or a ghost.

He levels his gunpowder eyes at Sirius with an utterly unimpressed expression. "You should keep up with academic journals, they found a cure sixteen months ago. But to awnser your question; I'm here to see my granddaughter."

It has been such a long day that Sirius only feels a little numb at the announcement. Arcturus has never been malicious towards him, had even defended him from Walburga on the rare occasions he had visited. But in no way did that mean that Sirius would trust him with his child, a child he was now blood bound to. Even if he didn't feel the Vow pulsing in his chest like a second heart, like a priceless treasure that empires would have fallen for. Even if it was simply because if one of them went down then the both of them would perish, he wouldn't put her at such risk.

"I can't trust you." He croaks instead, hoping that it will be enough.

It isn't, Arcturus gestures for him to sit down again. He obeys almost robotically, his knees seem to have been caulked with cement all of a sudden.

"You don't have the child anymore, don't you Sirius?" Whispers his grandfather softly.

And damn him because his voice is soft and soothing, rough in a way that it can only be when something intimate is said. And Sirius is so damn tired that he almost cries at the undercurrent of kindness it in.

"No." He whispers, honest despite himself. "No, they put me on house arrest and now Dumbledore has her."

Arcturus doesn't seem surprised, as if he had known what happened in the ministry all along. Sirius recalls the sound of glass falling like rain and shudders, he shouldn't have lost control on his magic like that.

"Of course you knew." He says instead, leaning back on the sofa a little. "What now? I can't simply leave her there and you wouldn't mention Holly if you had no interest in getting her back."

"Smart boy." The older man's voice is an amused rumble. "Now we go home, everything will be taken care of."

Those gunpowder eyes are looking at his hair, a small twist of that thin mouth showing displeasure. Sirius knows that he can't trust the man, it's all too much too late. His head feels filled with lead and and he just wants to sleep for a week, to leave all of this for another day.

But it might be his only shot at getting Holly back into his arms. He isn't a fool, he knows what this all means, and he hasn't heard a single word from Dumbledore since this whole mess started and Lily and James...

No, he can't let his thoughts wander there. Later, when he is alone and free to scream and cry and heave he will let himself feel a fraction of the grief simmering in his gut.

So he rises from the sofa, wipes his eyes on the scratchy sleeve of his conjured cloak and tries to seem steady.

"Home..." Nothing is home anymore, not even this little hole he has carved out for himself in the world. But he can try. "My wards are shit anyways, and it's better to be locked in a ballroom than a matchbox."

He goes for the hallway again, only stopping when he hears his name spoken calmly. His grandfather still hasn't risen from the sofa.

"Shouldn't you heal those?" Arcturus is looking at his throat now, his nose doing that little judgemental scrunch that he hated so much on his mother. He looks like an illusion, grossly out of place on the cheap upholstery and garish colors, a little porcelain figure given life.

He doesn't know how to explain that he doesn't want to, that he might not be able to sleep without the dull pain in his throat. It feels real in the way that so little things had in the last two days, every throb and pull tangible proof of an invisible tether of magic. And giving up the only sign that he still had something to live for when he was going to be stuck in those familiar walls felt like cutting a limb off.

Instead he just says "No." and his grandfather miraculously drops the subject.

He does get up then, quietly leaning against Sirius when he staggers at the door. No words are said, he can only feel the quiet warmth against his shoulder as they apparate.

And Sirius goes home.

Chapter Text

Castle Black is an impressive sight, half nestled in the evening fog as it is it still manages to take Sirius's breath away. Tall spires of gothic architecture surge towards the sky like a bouquet of black swords, the copper roofs long turned blue with age. Even the stained glass glittered in the red glow of the sunset, little jewels on a crown of obsidian.
It was a castle in the medieval sense of the word, the main building sitting like a cathedral in the middle of it's entourage of greenhouses and utility buildings. All of it connected by walkways tiled with dark stone, dotted with too many ponds and streams to count as the bridges leapt above the waters with the elegance of their construction. It was a little village in itself, a pale imitation of a town deprived of any semblance of life.

Time seemed to stand still as he stumbled along the path to the castle itself, lined with cypress like a cemetery.
He had only visited once before, long before he had attended Hogwarts, back when he could still exchange excited whispers with Regulus, their bond not yet broken by the intricacies of war. They had both exclaimed in wonder over the gargoyles, who had bowed reverently to them under the great burgundy door, huddling together in a mix of excitement and apprehension.
Coincidentally it had also been the last time that he had seen his grandfather, ravaged even then by the illness that had almost killed him.
Now, as he slowly walked down the tiled path that lead to that same great door he couldn't help but recall the past, the grounds were wilder, hedges untrimmed and the lake gone green with neglect, but the sheer grandeur of the place remained untouched. It still felt bigger than life, arches of glittering black stone choked by some strain of glowing ivy, ravens flying out of the many roof openings like clouds of iridescent feathers, and most of all the great building of black stone, as untouched by the passage of time as it had always been.
Arcturus was still pressed against him, letting Sirius lean his exhausted body on him without a word. He could feel the long strands of his grandfather's hair brush against his bare arms and he couldn't help but feel inexplicably comforted by the gesture, not even his father had allowed such intimate contact. If he stumbled while ascending the stone steps that lead to the castle's entrance Arcturus didn't mention it, and Sirius was too exhausted to take notice of his own wounded pride.
The doors loomed over them, two stories high and adorned with no less than eight ornate locks and metal bars, and he had a feeling that they were not made out of ordinary metal. They opened with a plaintive sound, and out of the dark mouth of Castle back came a tiny house elf, all clothed in silver and black.
"Welcome Sirs!" it squeaked in what sounded like a female voice, "Betsy has been waiting for a long time for the young master's return, yes she has!"
The little creature was shaking in such excitement that her ears seemed blurry with the strength by which they were trembling, and her round eyes were glassy with what might be unshed tears. Sirius felt a bit baffled, it seems that he had more standing in the family than his mother had led him to believe.
But his grandfather led him forwards without relenting, only giving a small nod to acknowledge the words of their little greeter. He was forced to crane his neck backwards and give the elf an approximative wave, determined to talk to her in more length at some point in his stay. He wasn't a fool, he knew the belly of his ancestral home hid more secrets than he could even conceive, and what better informant than the quiet keepers within it's halls, what better ears than those of a creature who knew it should be neither seen nor heard?

Arcturus had a an arm firmly hooked through his, leading him to the Blue room and hovering over him until he was safely seated in a cobalt velvet sofa. Sirius tilted his head back in exhaustion, watching the enchanted ceiling through weary eyes. There was Cygnus right above his head, twinkling softly as though sending a signal.
Merlin he was tired, there was a voice in the background but he could barely comprehend the words, everything was distant and muted, an incomprehensible underwater world.
"Sirius." said a voice, firm yet gentle and leading him back to shore.
He looked at his grandfather, willing himself to focus despite the exhaustion and the terrible tear in his heart.
Arcturus took his hand gently, ignoring his reflexive flinch. "Listen to me Sirius, as long as you are here, in this castle, you are under my protection." His eyes were as bright as the moon. "Do you know what that means?"
He did know. "As long as I'm here... they can't arrest me. Isn't that right?"
For some inexplicable reason Arcturus looked proud of him, his eyes steadily trained on him as Sirius struggled to simply sit there and not break apart. It made something inside of him ache so softly that he almost didn't notice it.
Remus used to look at him like that, soft and proud that he was more than what the world tried to teach him. But he wasn't good anymore, he'd trampled any virtue he had left into the ground along the pieces of Peter's brain.
And Remus was most likely dead, and if he wasn't he would be when Sirius was finished with him.
A hand gripped his jaw gently, carefully avoiding the loose and ragged strands of his hair. It was a respectful gesture as much as it baffled him.
"Go and get some rest." said his grandfather, his eyes infuriatingly gentle for a man with such a bloodstained reputation. "Tomorrow we have much to discuss, but you have to sleep now, the elves will take care of the rest."

Almost on autopilot he did so, climbing the marble stairs and stumbling through ornate hallways he only had a vague recollection of. It was only when he wrenched a door open to a room so room that felt heart wrenchingly familiar that he paused, that he thought.
He had been to Castle Black before, of course, but this room was like stepping back in time. If he let his vision blur just so he could see the unmade bed, hear his baby brother's giggles. The room hadn't changed since that day, so many years ago and yet as fresh in his memory as the fight yesterday. (Peter's blood on his hands, wet and warm, the forest floor unnaturally slick as he fell.)

He blinked, Reggie looked at him through dark lashes. The bedspread was a truly horrendous shade of beige silk and his baby brother's legs were swinging gently against it's hem.
It wasn't real, it couldn't be, but Reggie's eyes were as bright as the stars and his hair shone like the night sky with it's silver trinkets. There was a mother of pearl crow near his brow, as shiny and pristine as the day that Sirius had picked it out. He looked as he had before the fight, before he stopped looking at Sirius like that, soft and loving and so full of trust it hurt.

He blinked again, his eyes were full of tears and the bed was empty.
The bedspread was black.

Anguish gripped his insides like a slowly tightening vice, all he could suddenly do was crumple on the ground and try not to soil the pristine carpets with his sick. Everything seemed blurry and his eyes were wet, his body reacting before he could even process why he was so wrecked.
It was all too much in the end, Holly's absence like a physical wound, digging deeper into his flesh and making him choke on phantom sensations. The emptiness seeking worse with each minute without holding the new center of his universe, the only thing he had left besides a family that was no more familiar than a shopkeeper. The unfairness of it all made him choke back a scream, nails digging trenches into the cream carpet. He had every right to go after Peter, it was his right to end the newly created Blood Feud right then and there. Every pureblood in the wizengamot would have agreed right then and there that there was no crime to be accused of, nothing that the law could hold against him.
And yet here he was, without his goddaughter and with the aurors on his heels. Nothing but his brother's ghost and a grandfather that was as good as one.
Emotions battered his mind until he broke, all barriers and resistance swept away as he sobbed. His fingers clawing at the floor until he bled as he cried, a keening wail tearing it's way out of his throat and the strength of his anguish so severe that it made his head ache.
He fell asleep like that, a crumpled figure on the floor, soft whines escaping him even as he succumbed to an uneasy sleep.

The mirror threw his unflattering image back at him with a ruthlessness unique to inanimate objects. There was no witty commentary on his appearance, no doubtful fashion advice meant for middle aged women.
Only him and his scorched cheeks and ratty hair, a shame to his House without even trying.
The thought would have pulled a giggle out of him not long ago, now he could only stare blandly at the stranger that was his reflection, torn between the soothing blankness that threatened to swallow his thoughts and the aching pain of knowing, of having his throat constrict around thin air.

Mechanically he grabbed the first potion, hands tracing the ornate grooves of the carved glass, tiny locks of translucent hair like thread under his careless fingers. After a moment of hesitation he bit off the waxed cork and downed the brew, the gingery taste tingling down his throat.
After only a few seconds the effects made themselves visible, the scorched ends of his hair melding into silky midnight locks as his hair grew. The effects didn't wane until the strands brushed the back of his knees and his hair looked like it had never been burned off.
It had a gentle wave to it, similar yet so different to the ringlets that Holly had inherited from Dorea. But the shade of it was the same, no one would question his claim when he brought her home, they would only see a father devoted to his perfect daughter.
The thought felt wrong somehow, but the devotion was real, a tangible thing that he could almost brush with his fingers if he tried hard enough.

He had to focus, his reflection looked more real, less like an apparition summoned only to taunt him but the mass of hair was wild and tangled, his fingers snagging on knots as he tried to comb through it. He withheld a sigh and sat down to brush it.
A wixen's hair was a ritualistic affair and he had to treat it as such.

Sirius brushed through the tangles until his hair was as smooth as water, chanting softly the protection spells that Lily had taught him. He braided some sections of it next, small yet intricate braids that flowed along his fingers as surely as they did with his wand. He weaved small silver rings and bells through them, securing the loose strands with carved beads, Thurisaz and Algiz for protection, more intricate sigils for peace of mind and grounding.
By the time the renewed mass of his hair was pulled up into a looped ponytail that gently chimed with his movements he felt a little less like throwing himself to the ground and screaming, and his urge to set the mirror on fire for the crime of not being annoying has lessened to a manageable degree. He almost looked like a proper wizard he mused, as he tied a few trinkets to the biggest braid he had made.

The door behind Sirius opened with a creak but he didn't turn, his fingers busied with weaving a green and silver ribbon into a strand and his mind almost calm. Arcturus settled his hand on his shoulder, a respectful inch away from his hair and the comparison to the companionship that the previous day had brought almost stung.
"I wanted to give you this."
In his grandfather's open palm was a small moonstone pendant, the flat silver back of it inscribed with R.O.B.
"Is that...?" He didn't need to finish his sentence, he knew exactly what it was.
Sirius cleared his throat, finding it suddenly dry. "I thought it had been lost with his body, how did you find this?"
The older man leveled a sad stare at him, silver eyes suddenly as flat as brushed iron.
"I didn't find it, Regulus left it with me years ago, not long after the war started." There was a hint of guilt there, an admission to a fault that couldn't entirely be held against him. "I thought it wise to keep it safe until the danger was lessened at the very least."
Sirius wasn't angry, but the pendant pressed into his hands almost burned his skin with the weight of it. He shouldn't be keeping this, he should put in in a box and hide it in a vault somewhere, let the most important memento his brother had left be safe.

He closed his hand around it instead.

"Thanks." he croaked, at a loss for words.
There was an awkward beat of silence, a moment in which the uncomfortable possibility that one of them might make a move towards the other. He averted his eyes, ashamed of his greed but thankful that it was allowed to him.
His grandfather nodded stiffly, suddenly as uncomfortable with the emotions saturating the air as he was. His mother would have beat him for the arrogance (of being the one left alive, for daring to breathe when Reggie didn't) of it all. But Arcturus just gave him an awkward not, retreating towards the hallway in a forcefully casual manner.
He would be expected to show his face at breakfast eventually, the atmosphere no doubt stifled by the weight of their collective grief. But for now he had a piece of his brother again, something he could touch without the illusion of it evaporating like mist between desperate fingers.
So he weaved the bead reverently into his hair, right against his neck and gently bumping into the little obsidian dog beside it. There was much to do, potions to take care of his skin, clothes befitting of his station until he was inevitably bullied into buying swathes of unnecessarily lavish outfits.

By the time he made his way down the stairs he was clad in dark silk palazzo pants that brushed against his legs with each step, the assorted shirt and silk slippers making him feel like a duck out of water. He was dressed like a man attending a funeral, and he felt like one too. A stupid little mutt whining over the hand he had bitten, crying over the things he had ground his filthy teeth into.

The gloves on the other hand, those grounded him as they provided a much needed barrier between his hands and the magic infusing all and every inch of Castle Back. They chafed where fresh ink had been pressed into his skin but it was a small price to pay. As old fashioned as some people seemed to consider them gloves provided many a benefit that he had once spat on. He had arrogantly discarded the thought of hiding his arsenal, of avoiding magical overstimulation the same way that a teenager thinks himself above the concepts of consequences and responsibility.
His hands tightened in their mooncalf leather coverings, responsabilities were all he had left now, responsabilities and an oath of suffocation and blood.
He made his way down with a calm he didn't feel, his throat gleaming scarlet in the chandelier lights, his teeth a little sharper than they had been the day before.

Chapter Text

Breakfast was a silent affair, whether it was because Sirius was worn down by the events that had unfolded lately or a lingering awkwardness was up for debate.
He picked delicately at his poached eggs, wrists still graceful from his childhood teachings. There was cilantro sprinkled overtop and he ate that too, his face a perfect mask.

Mother would have been proud.
His hands were steady he noted, perfectly steady on the silver cutlery and only a little surprising to note. He almost expected them to shake again in retaliation for the thought alone, to drip thick dark blood onto the pristine tablecloth and make him watch as the flower of death bloomed.

His hands were steady, he scooped some more eggs into his mouth and didn't taste them. The fork had silver vines twisting down it's golden handle, nothing less than the best for the Most Ancient and Noble House of Black.

Would Holly like poached eggs? Would she be the kind of child to demand pancakes drowned in syrup and sweet pumpkin juice or would she take what she was given graciously, like a true aristocrat? Would her small hands fumble with the cutlery or would she have been taught her manners already, would she have Lily's elegant movements or James's efficient manner?

He would give her whatever she wanted, he knew that much, he would buy the whole city of London to get to cradle those black curls again. He would maybe even put off Peter's death for a few more days of holding her warm shape between his arms.

She had smelled like blood and spellfire smoke that night, death like a cloying perfume over her natural smell of baby powder and the white roses Lily had kept in the nursery. But even the smell of blood and human waste had been a comfort then, she had been real and alive between his arms. He had no such assurances now.

"Do you feel any better this morning?" His grandfather looked at him questioningly, his dark hair gathered up in an elegant bun at the back of his head. There was no pearls he noted, only gleaming silver pins in the shape of ravens and a few trinkets, the ones a wixen never took out.

"I do." He said diplomatically, rather than giving in to his instincts and start weeping again. "I would feel better if we could convene of a plan."

He got a flat look at that.
"I get your anxiety Sirius, but there isn't much we can do at the moment."

He cut off Sirius's cry of protest with an imperious wave of his hand, suddenly looking every inch the Head of House he was despite the modest hair and silk slippers.
"You are suspected of murder, no matter how righteous or justified your acts were no one will hand you a toddler until the matter is resolved."

Sirius could only frown, he knew his grandfather was right but the words sat heavy on his heart, like a stone made out of the bones of a man he would have once died for. But he had killed that man instead, and now it was the one thing standing between him and the child he was sworn to.

"What a mess." He murmured, voicing his current thought. "The court case will take months if we're lucky, this shouldn't even be happening. Peter betrayed his House, he broke the fidelius and allied himself with Voldemort."

There was a quiet flinch from both men at the name, but nothing more. Death had a way of making even the most fearsome of warlocks into an uneasy footnote, a lesson to be learned in magic schools at best.

"He would be lucky to even get the dementor's kiss." Sirius spat fiercely, his teeth bared in a mockery of a smile. "On the field this would have been a hasty execution, and more than a few curses depending on how much the Squad Leader was willing to look away."

Arcturus gave him a sad smile. "Indeed, this shouldn't have happened. Albus Dumbledore himself was the one to swear in Peter Pettigrew as a secret keeper, and he sits as Supreme Mugwump of the wizengamot." He took a dainty bite of his scone before continuing. "Blood for blood, the Casus Belli in this case in incontestable, it is a true waste of time to drag this into an official court case and waste the time and resources of the ministry on something that will be thrown out immediately. Blood debts are not to be messed with after all, they are the oldest law in the world."

Sirius suddenly felt very cold. His spine tingled with ice cold dread.

"What are you implying." He whispered hoarsely. "That someone is slowing down my guardianship of Holly... on purpose?"

He was rewarded with a dazzling smile, it made his grandfather look twenty years colder and it made his guts twist in fear.

"You always were a bright boy, despite being a Gryffindor. This isn't wartime anymore, and the government is willing to do almost anything to be painted in a good light once again."

His first instinct was to scream, but he had done enough of that last night. His second instinct was to scream again but on denial, why would the ministry, the wizengamot, the order work against him?

"Is there really nothing I can do?" He said instead, trying to keep his head cool. "This will take months of waiting, is there really nothing I can do to get what is rightfully mine other than hiring a good lawyer?"
Arcturus got up and marched to his side, taking hold of his jaw and gently pulling it towards him. His eyes were the silver of a gun about to fire, Sirius forced in a breath and then a second one, the grip on his face only tightening.

"You are a Black, never forget that." He said harshly, the amused grandfather from moments before all but vanished. "Blacks do not whine, they do not sit around wallowing while others rub their filthy paws on their belongings."

The pressure disappeared as Arcturus pulled away, but there was a telltale ache in his jaw that promised a bruise if the area wasn't healed. Sirius felt stunned but unsurprised, it was only a matter of time until the cracks in the polished facade shone through.
"She is yours, is she not?" The other man's breath ghosted across his cheek with the words. "Don't think you have me fooled Sirius, I can see the pact you've made, the collar you have tightened around your own neck. You claimed her and now you must take responsibility."

He was off kilter himself, in an unfamiliar house with a relative he hadn't seen since before he was even allowed to hold a wand. He could feel it warm against his thigh, a comforting reminder of what he was capable of.

But his grandfather was also right, Holly was his now and there he was, acting like a spoiled child instead of getting ready to reclaim her. He understood the warning in those words, he might not be able to act outright but he could set certain things in motion at the very least.

Arcturus settled back at the table, picking up his french toast and taking small, dainty bites of it. The scars on his cheeks pulled with each chewing motion, a shifting constellation of pink flesh.

"As I said, you are an impulsive child, you always have been, but you are no fool." His grandfather continued, steering right back into the conversation without letting Sirius gather his thoughts. "Do you think it will stop at this? Do you think that once they have made you waste months, perhaps even a year or two, they will withdraw into the shadows contentedly?"

"You're right grandfather, it's unlikely that they would stop there."

This earned him an almost proud smile, perhaps he was being praised for listening to advice but he still felt a simmer of almost forgotten warmth in his heart.

"Yes. They will be after you for much longer than that." He watched as the other man lifted his cup of tea, taking a small sip and closing his eyes contentedly.
"Someone wants to prevent you from getting the guardianship of this child." He said, gently setting the cup on it's ornate saucer. "Undoubtedly someone with ministry connections and enough money to oppose the House of Black. Not a Pureblood or they would have been more subtle about it, but it might still be political motivations rather than personal ones, although the latter seems more likely given the manner in which it has been done."

He pinned Sirius with his silver gaze, his face set in a cordial mask.

"Where is the child now?"

He didn't know, he didn't know where Holly was only that she had been in Hagrid's arms, so small and bloody that he would have nightmares about it for years to come. He tried to say so but the words were stuck in his throat and-

The wound was so slow to close, he could see the muscle fibers try to bridge the gap over the startlingly white flash of skull. She was so silent, the unbroken skin that remained a sickly pale shade, were it not for the infinitesimal rise of her chest she could have been a corpse. His eyes were burning and he was starting to pamt from the strain but he couldn't stop casting, he couldn't let her...

Sirius blinked, his eyes were wet and his hands were shaking without warning.

"With Albus Dumbledore, or whoever he has entrusted her care to." His voice was a hoarse whisper, the sound of a man holding himself together by a thread threatening to snap.

It was all he could say, and it had to be close enough to the truth. He had been so blinded with the thirst for blood, for revenge, that he had immediately forsaken the oath he had sworn. He was half surprised, half ashamedly relieved that the noose had not tightened around his throat yet.

It was the curse that hovered like a sword of Damocles above the head of each and every Black, each day the sword would swing, and there was no telling what it would cut until it was too late.

He could feel Arcturus looking at him intensely, silent as the grave but with an unpleasant twist to his thin face. His stomach lurched, the food he has swallowed now felt like acid sitting in his gut.

"The sword has swung." He whispered, almost to himself. He forced himself to raise his head and speak clearly. "I wanted Peter dead for what he had done, he had to die or I could no longer live as a human, only as a beast slavering for a distant revenge."

His teeth felt too big in his mouth, great jagged things like the peak of a mountain. He was holding all the ancient hunger of the world in his jaws.

His grandfather nodded, his face smoothing out and letting his scars fall into reassuring constellations once again. "You are a Black, sometimes the call of the hunt is stronger than us. But was it worth it, was the taste of revenge sweeter than the first words of your daughter?"

Oh. His daughter.

The words felt wrong, she was James and Lily's daughter and she would always be. She was *his* there was no doubt about it, but he could never take the place of her parents and he said as much.

Arcturus only scoffed, an almost inelegant motion. "Don't be foolish, of course you will tell her all about her parents and their sacrifice. But for all intents and purposes you will be her legal guardian, and she will be an heir to the House of Black."

And his grandfather had the right of it, didn't he? She would be his daughter in the public's eyes, blood adoptions were frowned upon but no one raised in the magical world could contest the legitimacy of one. He would raise her as such and she would inherit the heir ring once he because Lord Black, she would have the same rights as a trueborn daughter.

The rest of breakfast was a silent affair, both men too preoccupied with their thoughts to eat much. The food tasted like ash in Sirius's mouth and he eventually gave up, leaving his plate for the elves to deal with as he retreated into his room.

In truth there was much to do, even if he somehow got Holly back the very next morning he was woefully unprepared to take care of a child, let alone a baby. He had been overcome with his grief and the sudden loss of the person he was sworn to. The ritual could lead you to an early death if you were unable to protect your charge properly, let alone have her ripped away right after the ritual. It was no wonder then, that his brain had been addled since that night.

He sat down at his desk, made out of beautifully carved oak and covered in green leather, and pulled out a quill and parchment. He began to draft letters to three very specific people; Narcissa Malfoy, Remus Lupin and Merida Fawley, a lawyer specialized in custody battles.

He was conflicted about contacting his cousin again, they had never really talked after that nasty business with Andromeda but it was important to build family ties. Besides she had a child that was around Holly's age, and if he knew anything about Narcissa it was that the woman would do anything for her son.

Remus was easier, the war had torn them apart in a way but they were closer than brothers, and after everything Sirius truly believed that nothing could really break that bond. Besides he missed Remus, missed running wild on full moons and sparring with each other in a clash of claws and teeth that no one else could really understand. They had a wildness, a special kind of madness in them that could only truly been accepted by one another. Even James had redirected things into milder games, run at the back of the pack when in the middle of a chase rather than leading it alongside Moony like Sirius had as Padfoot.

He heaved a sigh and sealed the letter, hoping that Remus was still in England as the news broke. Surely he would be, at least long enough to get his affairs in order if he was planning to leave. Remus had always been the most organized out of all of them, he would do things properly or not do them at all.

He picked a pale grey wax, dripping it into a perfect circle and stamping it with his Heir's ring. He had pulled it out of storage and slipped it onto his finger the day before but it felt just as foreign as the moment he had put it on. The three ravens glistened mockingly in the candlelight, the insignia both familiar and frightening.

He sent the letters out of the window with the House's owls, all pitch black eagle owls with eyes like the moon, the last one giving him a disdainful glance as it launched itself off the window still.

The afternoon of that day was just as busy but in a different way, between familiarizing himself with the maze of hallways that seemed to make up the majority of Castle Black and filling out a truly inhumane amount of paperwork Sirius felt exhausted by the time he dragged himself back into his bed.

The bedsheets still smelled unfamiliar, and even turning into Padfoot and burrowing under the covers like he did on bad nights when he was a student didn't help. He used to jump into Remus's bed and tuck himself against the warmth of his side. And despite his grumbled protests he would always wake up to the other boy sleeping with his arms wrapped around Padfoot's shaggy neck, his soft snores vibrating in his sensitive canine ears.

But now no matter how hard he reminisced the room was cold and silent, an echo chamber to his own sadness. It smelled wrong, old wood and some truly nauseating incense that had probably been lit to get rid of the smell of dust and disuse but only seemed to make the fact more noticeable.

He tucked his snout into his side with a soft whine, sadness was dulled in this form but it only seemed to bring on a vague nostalgia that could never be solved. His jaw still ached dully, a reminder that no matter what family would never really change, and that even Arcturus couldn't be entirely trusted not to succumb to fits of madness.

He missed his pack, he wished he had made Peter suffer more.
It was to that vicious though that he finally fell asleep.

Chapter Text

Freak took a deep breath and braced her hands against the wood of the cupboard door, feeling for the grain of the unpainted wood. She let her eyes flutter close, her fingers trace the grooves in the door and brush against a stray splinter.

As her hands flexed she let herself forget about the ache in her bruised knees, about the dreadful fog of hunger that made her stumble and her stomach clench like a gaping pit.

No, all that mattered now was that she wanted the door to open, she wanted it more than she had wanted to eat the slice of bacon that fell to the floor that morning, she wanted the door to open more than she had ever wanted anything in her life.

It unlatched without a sound.

Freak squinted at the open door, still a bit stunned at the fact that it had worked. Good things rarely came without a hefty price and this recent... ability left her nervous and twitchy like a mouse out of her hole.

She breathed in, purposefully slow. The outside of her cupboard felt unsafe even now, and the darkness of the hallway was intimidating as it stretched in front of her, cavernous and unfamiliar and dreamlike in a way that could only happen in the dead of night.

She slipped out anyways, not bothering to be careful with her landing. Her feet never made a sound on those floors, unlike Dudley's that shook the entire cupboard when he came down the stairs. Perhaps she was too light, maybe it was a miracle like the one that made the doors fall open under her fingers if she wanted it badly enough.

Freak was always wanting, even when she really tried not to. Her heart was a gaping hole that wanted and wanted until it almost swallowed her thoughts with how it ached, how it stung to hunger and never be fullfilled.

Yes, if wanting was all it took to make her steps quiet and her hands warm then she would never run out.

The front door fell open all the same, it seemed to come easier as she got used to yielding those ugly feelings that burned her throat and almost made her cry. There was a strange sense to it all, after all why would normal people, good people need to wish doors into opening when they could simply ask. Real people could have things if they wanted to, they were allowed to. Of course they didn't need miracles when their whole life was a lucky stroke of fate.

She carefully closed it after she stepped out, you never know who could be watching after all, and made her way to the back of the house, nimbly weaving through bushes until she was able to reach the hole under the fence and crawl through.

As Freak stood there, brushing the dirt off of her oversized shirt, she looked at the open grass in front of her and almost laughed. She didn't of course, she wasn't even sure that she still could, but there was a faint feeling of joy that felt like the most wonderful thing in the world to her. For the next few hours she could do anything!

She didn't do something as foolish as run of course, she had a plan to follow and things to do. The first priority was to get some food, she had been starved for the offense of evading one of Dudley's kicks for two days now and if she didn't eat soon she would most likely throw up the next thing she attempted to swallow. Not only would it be a waste but she would also end up punished for it.

Mrs Prunell's garden was only two fences away, so she slunk across the gravel and jumped over a gate, weaving through bushes and climbing trees with a catlike grace that she scarcely noticed until she was standing at the edge of Mrs Prunell's kitchen garden, looking down at the rows of aromatic plants and tomato plants.

She wanted to stuff her oversized pockets until they burst, but someone would notice and that would cut off this specific garden from her list of available resources. And she couldn't bring a lot of things back to the cupboard, the loose plank under her cot only had so much space under it, and half of that was already taken by her one nice dress, another late night acquisition, and a copy of The Magician's Nephew.

No, she had to be smart. Looking at the tomato plants she carefully selected two small tomatoes, with only a couple of bug bitten spots and hidden under enough leaves that there was no visible difference. She turned to the runner beans next, they weren't very pleasant to eat raw but she could somewhat cook them in a fit of wishful desperation, if only when she was hungry enough, and more importantly they kept well in the dark, cool space that was beneath the floor.

With somewhat full pockets she set off towards her true destination, a medium sized park tucked away in the outskirts of Little Whining, whose gate was easy to jump and with a small forest that was strangely untouched by other people.

She got to her little clearing quickly, her bare feet unbothered by the rough pavement after years of going barefoot, it's not as if she went to school so why would her family bother buying shoes for her? The sight was familiar by now, the ground soft with grass and devoid of any rocks, she had long cleared those away. It only had one tree in the middle, a small fig tree struggling to stay alive in England's humid climate and that, more importantly, had a small hole between the knots of its roots where Freak's most precious treasures were kept.

She pushed aside the rock that hid her small stash from view and pulled out the small bundle of fabric, opening it up on the grass to reveal a few things. There was a little wooden box with two needles, a thimble and some black thread, half of a loaf of bread was has hard as a rock, a length of twine with a shimmering piece of glass as a pendant, a glass bottle full of water and her most precious belonging, a small hunting knife with a curving point to it, dried blood still flaking off the handle from her last hunt.

She took a long sip of the water and pulled out the knife, carefully tucking the bundle back into it's hiding place. She didn't have much time so if she wanted to have a proper meal she would have to get tracking now.

The park was full of small critters, rats and squirrels and the occasional muskrat when it was damp enough. Once she had even been lucky enough to get the jump on a pelican and she still had feathers lining the small nest she had created in the clearing. But tonight was a silent night, the light of the moon too bright and revealing to lend itself to any kind of nightly chase, she would have to hide and hope.

She slunk towards the edge of the small forest carefully, even her silent tricks could fail of she kicked a rock. The moonlight made everything silver and even as she carefully pulled herself into the first branches of the tree she held her breath respectfully. The night was her safe space, the moment where she could forget that she was a Freak and a failure, that she was unwanted and unworthy.

She crouched on one of the lower branches, effortlessly balancing on it despite the faintness that hunger inspired. Perhaps she had wished it often enough that, like her footsteps, it no longer required conscious effort. Perhaps she was simply good at something, that was allowed here, she could be more than Freak was ever allowed to be at home.

In the grass something twitched, her head slowly turned to focus on the small shape and, there! It was a small squirrel, it's ginger fur almost grey in the dimness of the moonlight.

It shuffled though the grass almost carelessly, it's little ears turning back and forth, trying to catch the sound of a potential threat. But she was silent, her breath not even making her body rise and fall, and as the small creature finally wandered under her tree she fell unto it, swift and unavoidable.

Her knife slid into the small body and it fell, unmoving and with nary a scream.

"That was almost impressive." came a voice.

Freak jumped almost a full meter in the air, turning around like a snake to stare at... a boy?

He couldn't be any older than her, wearing an uniform that seemed fifty years out of date and with an impeccably styled head of dark hair. His body was relaxed, not an immediate threat then, and his eyes were as flat and impassive as the surface of a lake. There was something strange about his presence, he didn't seem entirely solid, and although she couldn't see the forest through his body she was finding it hard to shake the feeling that she should. The fact that there was a faint blue glow to him that she couldn't entirely write off as the ethereal effect of moonlight probably didn't help.

"Who are you?" she snapped, then unsurely added "I have a knife."

He tilted his head mockingly. "Yes I can see that, you didn't catch that thing with your hands did you."

Freak flushed, embarassment had been beaten out of her but the notion of incompetence here, in her one free time, stung worse than the belt.

"It's messier with my hands." she explained, although the boy probably didn't care. "What are you doing here, the park is closed."

But the boy didn't explain himself, he took a step, almost two but seemed to hesitate after seeing the wild look in her eyes. He sat down in the grass instead, his brow furrowed like one of those child models in the magazines.

He pulled out a clump of grass with a small, slender hand and looked at it almost uncomprehendingly, letting the blades fall through his fingers until his hands were empty once again.

"I won't bother you." He offered. "What are you going to do with the squirrel?"

Freak didn't have friends, and she certainly didn't have friends that appeared in the middle of the night like the ghost of a Victorian child. He was dressed like one too. But she was awfully lonely, and he had promised not to bother her.

Resolving not to think about it too much she picked up the squirrel, wincing as she discovered a small cut on her hand, and turned back towards the boy. He hadn't moved, but he was watching her with dark, unreadable eyes.

"Okay," she allowed "you can come with me for a while, but you have to tell me your name."

He was quiet for what might have been minutes, the night stretching between them like a dark river, timeless and ancient. It seemed like even the trees stopped rustling, holding their breath.

"You can call me Tom." He finally said, although his mouth twisted a little at the name.

Maybe it wasn't his real name, but that didn't really matter to Freak. She didn't want to know who the strange boy was, she only wanted a word to stick to him, to make him a little more grounded into reality so she could stop thinking of him as an especially cryptic ghost and more like a child, someone she could enjoy spending time with.

So they set off to the clearing and spend a precious few hours of the night cooking the squirrel and beans and sitting in companionable silence.

Few words were said that night, but it seemed like few were needed, and when she showed him how she wished a spark into existence he seemed unsurprised but faintly wistful, his hands twitching as if he was holding an invisible stick. Freak shared the squirrel with him, staying silent even as he chewed around the morsel of flesh with something not unlike bewilderment, his eyes widening with emotion for the first time since she had met him.
The blue glow around him lessened and she eventually stopped thinking about it as unusual, the time spent in his company had made the boy more real, less like a visitor and more like a real person.

Hours later she would walk back to the house, warm and full and perhaps a little less empty than usual, in more ways than one.

Freak emerged from sleep like a small animal would, with a jackrabbit heartbeat and the feeling that something was about to hunt her down. She wasn't that far off from the truth in all honesty, she had perhaps a few minutes before the door to her cupboard was wrenched open and she was herded into the kitchen.

Aunt Petunia had gotten the idea that she should learn how to cook and had been making her fry bacon every morning for a week now. It was probably even worse than cleaning the loo in Freak's eyes. At least a toilet didn't spit hot oil at you and one didn't get beaten for looking away from the task for a second or two.

Someone should probably tell Aunt Petunia that the reason why the bacon came out half burned, a marked improvement from the charcoal she had produced the first day though, was that Freak was too short to really see inside the pan even with the small stool she stood on.

But she wouldn't be the one to speak up, Freak might be a 'retard', whatever that meant apart from stupid, in the family's eyes but she wasn't enough of one to go asking for the cane. It wasn't like she could eat the bacon she cooked, so what did she care if it was a bit black?

Something felt off, the gap under her cupboard door was too dark, the house too silent even for the early hours of the morning. But she didn't usually wake up in the middle of the night, perhaps something else was waiting for her beyond the usual chores. The doubt was an uncomfortable thing, so she scrambled for her clothes regardless, slipping the only shirt she owned over her scrawny frame. It was big enough that it hung off of her like a dress, but she had patched all of the holes in it and Dudley's trousers looked ridiculous enough on her that Aunt Petunia let it slide. It stopped halfway down her calves anyways, it's not as if the Dursleys had to look at her body despite the lack of bottoms.

She slept in her undies in summer, the cupboard was stuffy enough to discourage her from cooking alive in the sake of modesty. But Aunt Petunia would have a stroke if she had to look at her uncovered body, and fabric was a decent protection against the scalding bacon fat.

It wasn't like she cared about the disgust in her aunt's eyes, the way she leaned her body back whenever Freak stood too close or the fact that she washed her hands until they were red after she touched her. She didn't care about those things at all, she really didn't.

If you keep telling yourself that it might become true.

Years of living as quietly as possible was the only thing that saved her from letting out a scream at the sound of a... voice? It sounded close, but it didn't echo along the walls of the cupboard like sounds usually did, neither was it muffled like sounds from the outside were.

She swung her head around, quickly scanning the small space.

Nothing.

Then a disturbing thought came to her, she had said none of her unsettling thoughts out loud, she was sure of it. So how could the owner of the voice have known unless they were also in her thoughts?

That was frankly insane, she knew she wasn't right in the head, she certainly heard it often enough, but this was a bit far.

I see that you're not as dense as you seem, good. The voice echoed again, definitely in her head.

Freak lowered her arms, unfurling from her defensive position and slumping onto her cot in defeat. Trying to avoid getting hit would do her no good if her mind was turning against her, but she didn't know what else to do.

As she lay there, eyes glassy with confusion and the exhaustion of functioning on four hours of sleep, she could see the outline of something... familiar start to shimmer against the door of her cupboard. Then suddenly, as if he has always been there and the absence of him had always been the wrong conclusion, the boy from the park was crouched next to her in the cramped space.

She squinted at him, he looked more solid than before but he was still strangely luminescent like something about him can couldn't quite blend into the mundane background of peeling paint and stained fabric. His eyes were a strangely dark blue she noted, in the silver light of the moon she thought that they had been brown but now they looked like the ocean, a churning, tumultuous gaze that was now focused on her trembling shape.

She didn't quite know what to do, if she spoke to him then she would definitely be noticed, Aunt Petunia was a light sleeper and she had ears like a bat. And who knows what would happen to her if she was caught with a boy stranger than even her in the cupboard. Maybe the boy wasn't real, but the thought of having truly gone insane was more disturbing to think of than other children appearing out of thin air if she was being honest with herself.

Tom?

The boy, Tom, smiled at her as she pushed the thought towards her. It looked like he was trying to be encouraging but his eyes were as flat as ever and there was something unnatural about his smile, as if the motion was foreign to him. She certainly wasn't going to judge, Freak couldn't remember the last time she had smiled herself, for all she knew she would look just as constipated as he did.

His smile dropped, but he held out a pale, luminescent hand. That's right, I'm here. Put your hand in mine for a moment.

She did so unthinkingly, so used to obeying orders that even her distrustful nature was overridden. His hand was as cold as ice but it was surprisingly solid, it was soft and just as delicate as hers.

She tilted her head to the side and watched as he did the same, perhaps he was as puzzled as she was that the hand holding his was solid, real. She didn't question why he wanted her to hold his hand, a need for touch seemed to be such an inconsequential thing.

Why are you here, Tom? she questioned instead, giving his hand a soft squeeze simply to make sure that yes, he really was here.

Because we're the same my dear, I want to help you. was his simple awnser.

Freak had never been called anything so nice as dear, and while the flat tone of his voice made it clear that he didn't mean it in the slightest she couldn't help but feel a flare of warm emotions in her gut. Even if he was lying to her, it was such a novel thing to hear.

Oh. she pushed towards him instead, a bit at a loss for words. Will you stay tonight?

Tom looked just as surprised as she was at those words. She hadn't meant for him to truly hear that, but it was hard to control one's thoughts. She cringed back a bit, knowing that running one's mouth about things like desires and weaknesses like needing a presence never ended well.

But Tom's eyes were as flat and distant as they always had been, and he didn't turn to leave. Instead he gingerly settled on the cot next to her trembling body and reached out with his small, pale hand.

As the hand settled in her tangled hair, a silent gesture of acceptance, she had a strange thought. Maybe Tom was just as lonely as her, maybe he too, was struck by this strange feeling of being a little less twisted inside when that cold hand sank through the matted layers of her hair to reach the skin beneath.

And without even noticing the strangeness of it all, and her own lack of fear, she fell into a dreamless sleep.

Chapter Text

After that night Tom never left.

He was there when she was shaken awake, looking as emotionless as ever and flickering out of existence as she tried to push past him to leave her small cot.

But as she was making breakfast she could see him out of the corner of her eyes, sitting on the counter with his polished leather oxfords and a bored pout to his perfect mouth. His legs swung against the wood cabinets but made no sound, as if he really was a figment of her imagination. But he wasn't, she knew he wasn't. His eyes tracked her unerringly, piercing despite the lazy set of his eyelids and the cold porcelain of his face, and whether by imagination or by truth she could feel a cold sweat work it's way down her spine when she met his eyes one time too many.

It was like looking at a fox she mused, staring down a predator and trusting that it wouldn't pounce the moment you looked away. Tom wouldn't pounce, she knew that he needed her to be real just as much as she did, but the animal part of her brain rang the alarm bells all the same.

The Dursleys couldn't see him, of course they couldn't, but there was a strange atmosphere to the house as Tom followed her around like her own personal haunting.

Maybe that's what it was, she really was being haunted by the ghost of a long dead child and he was simply waiting for the right moment to speak.

Freak found that she didn't care, the fact that Tom was only visible to her eyes didn't make him any less real in her eyes, it made him hers. There was no risk of Dudley chasing him away, there was no fear of Uncle Vernon discovering them whispering together and locking her up for weeks on end.

No, Tom was her little secret, and she felt almost giddy at the thought of having something that no one could ever take away.

Tom, it seemed, felt about the same even if he looked like his face was perpetually frozen in a state of blank disinterest. He touched her constantly, his cold hands tangling in her hair, grabbing her sleeves as he followed and pressing himself against her as she did chores around the house. It was the middle of summer so the cool touch made her feel refreshed, and the fact that someone really wanted to touch her made her feel incredibly smug. Someone really wanted her, even if it was because he had no other choice, someone wanted to be close to the unsettling little Freak niece of the Dursleys. It almost made her resent her name, the truth of it that she could never escape, not even with her face pressed into Tom's starched uniform shirt, inhaling the scent of evergreen and something metallic underneath.

One night, as they both huddled together around the worn copy of The Magician's Nephew, Tom snaked his hand into her hair and pulled her towards him with a firm tug.

He did that a lot, he would grip her wrists a bit too hard to be comfortable, his nails would sometimes dig into her skin as he wound his arms around her waist, he would tug her around by the hair like he was doing now. Freak complied easily, those rough touches were nothing compared to how Uncle Vernon threw her around, and even Dudley's half hearted kicks were more painful than this.

Besides, Tom was like her, he had clearly never had anyone he could simply touch before, at least not unconditionally like he did now. She was afraid that asking him to be gentler would drive him away instead, make him less free with his touches. She didn't think she could easily go back to how it was before, falling asleep in the dark, so utterly alone.

Before Tom the dark used to be comforting, it was quiet and alone and safer than she ever was around others. If she was alone no one could hurt her, no one could touch her and tell her all those horrid words that tasted of truth all the same. Now she didn't mind if it hurt, she wanted to fall asleep with Tom clinging to her like a drowning man, tightly and painful and so earth shatteringly right that she didn't even want to think of the before.

Tom drew her head against his chest, she could never hear his heartbeat but his chest rose and fell reassuringly, the sound of his breathing was now familiar.

Your hair is horrid. came the thought, Tom managed to make even mental words sound dry. She knew he didn't mean it though, it was a simple observation to him, carrying no negative meaning. The tones of politeness and the delicate little white lies that Aunt Petunia had threatened into her until they were a reflex didn't seem to be something Tom knew. Or perhaps it was that he didn't bother with her, why make things more palatable to someone who didn't care about that?

She stuck her tongue out at him, confident that she wouldn't be punished. Fix it then, since your tastes are so refined.

But instead of the usual sarcastic reply there was silence. She turned to look at him and Tom was almost thoughtful, his eyebrows were maybe slightly furrowed, if one squinted and deluded herself a bit.

But she wasn't wrong, and soon enough his reply came.

Maybe I should, it's so matted that I'm surprised that horse that pretends to be your aunt hasn't taken scissors to it yet.

Freak snorted, as if. That would require her to touch me, what if the freakishness is contagious?

The hand in her hair tightened painfully. Don't call it that.

Sorry. She didn't know what his problem was, he seemed to be almost angry every time she joked about the way the Dursleys saw her wishes.

She thought that Tom, of anyone in the world would understand how it felt to be so desperately wanting, he felt full of it too, his hand tight against her skull, the other a bruising grip around her upper arm. He wanted to be close, even if he sometimes looked at her askance when she was the one to initiate touch. As if, for a moment, he had forgotten that it was allowed to do so. And she had never ever been afraid of Tom, she didn't think she could be when he held her so fiercely, but sometimes when she took him by surprise, when he turned and for a moment didn't quite recognise what he saw, she saw something else behind those dark blue eyes.

(There was a fox in the forest, looking at her with animal eyes. The fox had always been there, will always be there, waiting. She didn't know if those eyes screamed hunger or loneliness.)

A shiver made it's way down her spine as she remembered the one time she had woken up before Tom, reaching out for his still shape in the dark, afraid of being cold and adrift in the inky blackness of her cupboard any longer than she had to. Tom had startled awake at the touch and twisted under her like a snake, his face suddenly twisted in a snarl and something had thundered in her chest, something like fear but also something like recognition that the same trapped animal thrashed in each of their chests.

Tom hadn't hit her though, and after he had stilled, sagging under her weight as he saw it was only her, that she was safe and familiar to him, he had held her in his arms for a long time. The grip was crushing, and bruises had bloomed on her sides the next day but she said nothing. Tom didn't apologise either, there was no need, whatever happened that morning was an unspoken thread of trust woven between them.

No matter, Tom said he would help and that was special. He usually didn't do anything to make her life easier beyond providing constant companionship, the sight of her being kicked seemed to be the same as the sight of her quiet contentment to him, he took it all in stride with the look of someone who never expected anything and thus couldn't be disappointed. Freak wished she had the same detachment, it would certainly make it easier to get through the day, without the bitter twist of her gut whenever she was denied the scraps of dinner.

She had been like that before, going through the motions with no resistance, content to avoid punishment but no more angry at the universe when they happened. But those times felt fuzzy and distant now, ever since Tom had first appeared she had started to feel more, more often than before. It was both comforting and terrifying that she now had something to lose.

But now he was giving her expectations, how silly. For a moment she almost felt angry at him for it, for making her think that he would be there for her instead of simply being there with her. But the anger quickly faded, what could Tom really do beyond touch her? He couldn't grab Dudley by the hair like he did to her, he couldn't intimidate her relatives because they couldn't see him, she wasn't even sure that whatever linked them allowed him to appear away from her.

Tom was still a mystery to her, a beloved one yes, but something strange and arcane that seemed to stop existing beyond the scope of her awareness. What did he do when he wasn't present, in those few hours when, seemingly bored of watching her scrub her Aunt's kitchen he faded from her world and went somewhere she couldn't reach.

Freak hated the moments when Tom was gone, she hated them like she hated little else in the world, not even Uncle Vernon when he broke her arm last year and left her in the garden, cold and agonized. When Tom left it was like a part of her left too, she felt cold and alone and like some warmth had disappeared from the air, even in the sweltering summer weather. She would never tell him how much she depended on him now, how much despair gripped her heart as she struggled to go though what was once her reality, because Tom might understand, but it would also skew the balance of power between them.

Right now they were both powerless, both dependent on each other for whatever softness existed in their world. But if Tom knew how much it hurt her, how much it pulled at her soul to see him slowly sink out of existence, he might do what anyone in her situation would do. He would pull and prod at the feeling until he was truly sure that she couldn't function without him, she would have done the same if Tom had any cracks to claw at in his smooth facade. Any weakness was another thread to wrap around the other, if Freak could she would bind him so tightly that he would never be able to leave her alone ever again.

But she didn't say anything about it, that would be foolish, instead she simply leaned her head back, silently relishing the prickle of pain that came with her hair being so securely held. It was safe, it was real, the feeling anchored the fact that this wasn't simply a diseased figment of her mind.

Really?

Tom's mouth twisted into a smug little smirk, her heart constricting painfully at how pretty he looked, like a porcelain doll. Why not? If you look less like a street rat then you might get some pity from the neighbours.

Of course that was what Tom had in mind, not that she would complain about him making her, their life better. But she had been entertaining a strange sense of vanity about her hair, which had miraculously escaped Petunia's wrath and had once fallen in pretty little curls rather than the matted mess down her back it now was.

So she sat, as Tom ran his hands down her hair in surprisingly gentle motions and untangled each lock of her hair one by one. He didn't pull, and something like static buzzed down her back as he worked, perhaps the fact that he was touching her for so long was resonating through both of them.

But after having worked in silence for most of the evening, the Dursleys gone on a weekend trip, he finally pulled back and took her hand, pressing it to the cupboard door.

Come, I'll show you how it looks.

So she did, she wished the door open, happy to once again see how he liked what she could do, how he didn't cringe away from her even as her eyes flashed in the dark, illuminating the jagged edges of her scar.

He grabbed her hand and pulled her up the stairs, uncaring of her smaller legs as she stumbled to keep up. And once in front of the bathroom mirror he looked at her with what was almost a proud look.

The sight of her hair almost made her cry, it fell in shiny waves down her back, ending just below her pelvis and gleamed like a raven's feathers, a faintly iridescent gleam to it making it look unreal. It was pretty, something about her body was pretty!

After biting her cheek and making sure she wouldn't do something to embarass herself, she turned to Tom and softly spoke.

"Thank you." She didn't speak to him often, thoughts being more intimate, but this was special.

"You're welcome, but I'm not finished with you."

Her confusion was quickly replaced with nervousness as Tom pulled out a strange assortment of hair ties, shiny stones and what seemed to be a real pearl out of his pocket, gesturing for her to sit on the floor.

"This is an important tradition to my people," he explained as he started braiding her hair with practised motions, "you would have gotten your first trinket at a year old and another one for each year and important event since."

"Your people?" She questioned, feeling confused. Tom was talking as if he came from a strange place.

But he only gave her a blank look, his perfect lips pulled into a closed lip smile that managed to look just as emotionless as ever.

Something pulled at the edges of her mind, a curl of energy that she could almost touch. Like Wishing, but much simpler, like whatever it was had always been there and only now been noticed. But she didn't reach out, something about it made her uneasy, much more than whenever she reached out to think at Tom, always unsure that it would reach him.

They fell into silence as he kept styling her hair, Freak had many questions burning on her tongue but held herself back. She was afraid of pushing and of Tom leaving, now that she knew he had somewhere he could go.

His people... wasn't that something new, something she could gather inside of herself and hoard like gold? Tom had been somewhere before he was with her, and while the thought made her want to grab some part of it and yank, pull and bite and tear until he too felt an absence, it was also something new about him. Finally she held another small piece of the mystery that was her friend.

She could feel the braids tumbling down her back as he kept working, touching her hair so softly and reverently, something he had never done before. He would tug and pull and gasp yes, but it was never gentle. As the braids pulled softly at her scalp it felt more or less the same though, tight and safe, she was being held.

Tom turned her towards the mirror again and this time she couldn't hold in her gasp, if her loose hair had been beautiful then this was art, the kind that she only saw in glimpses of movies while she cleaned. Her hair was braided around her head like a crown, or a halo, little ringlets framing her face and making her eyes look bigger. Down her back a heavy and intricate braid fell in a pattern almost like a waterfall, dotted with shiny river stones that he had somehow bound to her hair. And behind her right ear a lock of hair, braided more plainly than the rest, held the pearl with a little golden clasp.

He gently cupped her head with his hands, they were cold yet soft. "I've given you an important gift, now you really are a witch?"

She frowned at him, puzzled. "I'm not a witch Tom, aren't they evil?"

He didn't get upset at that, if anything he looked smug. "Of course you're a witch dear, and I'm a wizard. There's nothing evil about it, it just makes you more special than anyone else in this house, you're almost as special as me." Seeing her unconvinced look he added; "What else do you think your little miracles are? It's magic, magic more pure than a lot of wixen could ever accomplish."

She thought of her eyes glowing green and sharp as she wished the cupboard open, she thought of stepping silent as a ghost on the cold floor of the kitchen.

She thought of jumping higher than she should, knife cleaving through fur. She thought of blood warm and metallic and the gift it had given her.

Somewhere, even if she hasn't wanted to admit it, she had known.

"You're right Tom, thank you." she said softly, bringing her hand to caress the pearl.

He smiled at her, it didn't reach his eyes but that didn't matter, she felt like he pretended a lot better for other people, she didn't want anything more fake than necessary. But... Tom didn't have a braid with a shiny pearl, Tom didn't have hair that fell in comforting and heavy waves. His hair was shorn close to his head and fell slightly into his eyes, like someone had taken scissors to it and sloppily sheared it like one would a sheep. It looked neat but impersonal, more like a military style than a child's haircut.

"Is hair important to witches and wizards?"

He gave her an appraising look. "It is quite important indeed, many believe that hair is the most magical thing about a person after their core."

She didn't know what a core was but she had asked enough questions already, her skin itched with the discomfort of it. But she knew that Tom was lacking something important now, something that he had given to her. And she couldn't fix a lot of things, even with the miracles, her hands were small and she was weak and scared. But she could do that for him, she could give him a bit of his identity back.

"Okay." She said simply, choosing not to argue for now. "But won't Aunt Petunia be mad if she sees my hair like this?"

"Don't be stupid, we're going to hide it." He snapped, clearly finding the question stupid and his patience short.

Questions were clearly over, she nodded instead, waiting for further instructions.

He pulled her down the stairs again, her hair swaying wonderfully as she walked, making a soft and tinkling sound as the stones rubbed against each other. As wonderful as it was she would have to wish them silent too, unless she wanted to be beaten next time she snuck out.

They curled up in the cupboard together like a pair of cats, limbs intertwined and bodies warm from the touch of each other. She wished the lock closed and he watched, his eyes sharp and attentive like they only ever were in the green glow of what she now knew to be her magic.

He pulled out a strand of her hair and she almost yelped, biting her tongue to prevent the sound from escaping. Her gums ached, she wanted to bite him for that, sink her teeth into his arms and grind until... Why was she so angry?

The thought baffled her long enough that she almost missed Tom weaving the hairs around her fingers like a cat's cradle, she had seen Dudley play it with his friends once. Dudley had gotten sick of it in five minutes, but Tom was carefully weaving a little web around her rough fingers, face impassive in what she knew now to be concentration.

"Physical rituals help with concentrating your magic, willing it to do something simple is easy, but you need to have more than will for a glamor." He seemed to catch her curious look because he kept going, more talkative than usual. "A glamor is like a disguise, no one else but you will know what you really look like, unlike your silent footsteps it will work even as you sleep."

She hasn't know that her silence wasn't permanent, she wasn't even thinking about it anymore so she had thought it was just there. But Tom clearly knew more than her and it was silly to question it.

He guided her hands together in a parody of a prayer, clasping his own hands over hers, they were slightly bigger. "Now repeat after me, and think of how badly you want this to be our secret." The words were whispered into her ear and she shivered, swaying slightly.

But she repeated after him dutifully.

"O magia, cela quod alii videre non possunt, anime mee et corporis decus absconde."

It felt like an egg was being cracked over her head, a fluid and viscous sensation spreading over her body like a cloak. But she kept going even as her breath came out in little pants.

"Dimitte mortalibus putredinem praeteritorum, et da mihi munera, da mihi cordis secretum."

As she gasped out the last word a wave of light seemed to radiate out of her body, illuminating her veins like a flashlight under her skin. Then, as quickly as it had appeared, the light was gone, taking with it all of her remaining strength.

She sagged against Tom, uncaring of the way he stiffened then relaxed slowly. A hand came to rest on her head, brushing sweat soaked curls away from her forehead.

You did well, you can rest now.

She didn't dream that night, not even of a green light and a woman screaming and screaming. There was only warmth and silence.